Confession
by yaoifangirlHolly
Summary: In questioning Sherlock's sexuality, Watson is forced to admit to his own feelings. Sherlock/Watson. Slash
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, the BBC do. And I do not own the characters or general story, Arthur Conan Doyle does. The only thing I own is what I've written here and I don't profit from it in any way except the sheer enjoyment of writing it **

**Story: Set shortly after the first episode of Sherlock entitled "A Study in Pink". Holmes/Watson slash. Watson goes back to the flat and confronts Sherlock over what he said in the cafe. And admits his own attraction.**

"Well, that Chinese was nice, wasn't it?" Sherlock said, unusually chirpy, possibly because he had just solved a case. "Oh look at that, I'm nearly out of nicotine patches. That won't do."

John Watson lingered in the doorway silently. It wasn't the fact that he had shot dead a serial killer only an hour or so earlier that bothered him, but rather Sherlock's own words at the cafe that had lingered with him, and confused him. When he had asked Sherlock if he had had a girlfriend, Sherlock had said no, that it wasn't his "area". He asked him if he had a boyfriend and Sherlock had said no again, but not that it wasn't his area this time.

"Are you gay?" he blurted out.

Sherlock looked up from the mail he had been sorting through and raised a quizzical brow. "I'm sorry?"

"S-Sorry, I, it doesn't matter. I shouldn't have asked."

"Obviously it matters to you if you asked," Sherlock pointed out. He ran a hand through his dark curly hair. "I don't see it as relevant to our partnership."

Watson shook his head, cheeks burning. Great. Now he looked like a complete idiot.

"Unless." Sherlock turned to fully face Watson as he said it, as a thought occurred to him. He placed his blue scarf on the table, and walked over to stand in front of Watson.

"What?" Watson heard himself say faintly.

"I should have seen this. Maybe you've always felt attractions to men. It's why you joined the military, to sleep near them, to shower with them. To be near them," Holmes finished, and as he held eye contact with Watson, Watson couldn't help but swallow. "Yet you never admitted it, am I right?"

Watson cleared his throat, and lowered his gaze a moment. "How did you turn this around on me so easily?"

Sherlock placed a finger under Watson's chin to tilt it upwards to his gaze once more. "I'm Sherlock Holmes," he said with a smile. "It's what I do." Then he leaned in and kissed him.

Watson was so caught off guard he would have stumbled back, had Sherlock not pulled back first.

"Do you want to come upstairs?"

Annoyed at his mouth having gone dry, Watson was lost for words. He hadn't expected the elusive, "high functioning sociopath" Sherlock Holmes to do such a thing.

And now he was...smiling? "I'm sorry," he said. "I don't normally do this with my flat mates you know."

"I suspect Mrs. Hudson would have said something to me if that were the case," Watson managed to say.

Another beat of silence, then Sherlock awkwardly reached out; took Watson's hand. "Would you like to come up to my room...John?"

Watson forced a nod. "I would like that."

Following Sherlock up the stairs, his mind, and his heart were racing, however. He had been attracted to guys before, that was true. Maybe it was as Sherlock had suggested, that he had subconsciously joined the army to be close to them. But he had never been with one before, let alone one as androgynously handsome and elusively compelling as Sherlock Holmes.

As soon as they reached the room, his hands went to help Sherlock off with his jacket, but they were shaking. Sherlock caught his arm with a hand and a tender smile. "I can do that in a minute," he told him gently. The other pale hand went to cup his face, an intimacy Watson never could have imagined Sherlock doing, but it seemed to fit him perfectly.

"Are you sure about this?" Watson found himself saying. "We barely know each other."

"That's not true. I know – "

"I mean, beyond the deductions you've made."

"We're partners now. And flatmates. I'd wager we'll find out a lot in a short space of time," Sherlock shrugged. He discarded his jacket, placing it on the back of a chair and it was at that moment Watson remembered he was in Sherlock's room, and took his eyes off the man himself.

"You're really into this stuff, aren't you?" Various books on crime and human psychology were piled on top of each other, one even on the bedside table.

"You have to know your enemy," Sherlock shrugged again, unapologetically, pulling Watson to sit on the bed beside him.

"You're the most beautiful guy I've ever seen," Watson confessed finally. "I bet it isn't just women who try to pick you up."

"That's elementary, my dear Watson," Sherlock smiled. "The truth is, I have struggled to find an intellectual equal."

"And you think that's me?"

"I think you love the thrill of the chase as much as I do. Now, enough talking," he said, and moved in for another kiss. His lips were soft, but somehow that didn't surprise Watson, because he had thought that they looked soft all along, at the back of his mind.

In sex, Sherlock was everything he had already exhibited. Commanding, eccentric, unapologetic. But to Watson's surprise he was also gentle and passionate, opening up to Watson, revealing vulnerability and neediness, but also expecting the same in return.

And Watson had to admit, despite the pain and clumsiness, that it was one of the most erotic experiences of his life, the way Sherlock attacked him with kisses all the way down his neck and shoulder as he drove into him, perhaps because he was finally admitting to a part of his sexuality that he had so long denied.

"I wonder...what we should...tell Mrs. Hudson," Watson found himself gasping between the onslaught of kisses and touches.

"We tell her nothing, it's none of her...business," Sherlock murmured, moaning in such an uninhibited manner that Watson hoped he would hear it every day.

Afterwards, they lay together, and Sherlock traced his pale hand over Watson's body, using his scientific deductions to observe how Watson had gained various scars. Watson was pleased to find that Sherlock's body was pretty much the flawless snow white under his clothes as the parts the rest of the world saw were. Except for a freckle on his shoulder, which Watson couldn't resist kissing.

"I knew it," he murmured.

"Knew what?" Sherlock said.

"That you would be beautiful."

Sherlock couldn't think of a response to that, and Watson smiled, a little satisfied to have rendered the man speechless, as he bent to apply kisses to the curve of Sherlock's shoulder. His delight increased as the man unconsciously arched into him, a silent plea for more.

**N.B. BBC'S Sherlock has become my new obsession now and whilst this fic was partly an excuse to imagine Benedict Cumberbatch naked, I also think that the new Sherlock and Watson have a great chemistry onscreen which translates well into slash. If people like this (and even if they don't) I'll probably do another chapter.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, the BBC do. And I do not own the characters or general story, Arthur Conan Doyle does. The only thing I own is what I've written here and I don't profit from it in any way except the sheer enjoyment of writing it **

**Story: Set shortly after the first episode of Sherlock entitled "A Study in Pink". Holmes/Watson slash.**

**NB: After receiving many positive reviews for my first chapter, I thought I'd write some more. I don't have a particular story outlined in my mind, it's really just what I imagine Holmes and Watson would be like as a couple. And to personally imagine being with gorgeous Sherlock/Benedict Cumberbatch.**

As John Watson slowly awoke that morning, he became aware of a long pale arm around his waist from behind, and couldn't figure out who it belonged to at first. Was he back in the army...sharing a bed with a guy...who slept topless? Finally it came back to him, but he rolled over to confirm it.

"Hello."

John's mouth twitched into an awkward but pleased smile, it was disconcerting to have Sherlock Holmes so close to him (thought he'd been much closer the previous night), partially because there was still so much he didn't know about the man, and partially because he was a man, and John had never been so close to a man before, albeit an unusually androgynously beautiful one.

"Good morning," he managed in return.

"Sleep well?" Sherlock's mouth quirked up in a small smile in a way that John was quickly becoming used to.

"Yes...thank you."

"We'd better get up. Busy day." Sherlock sat up, and turned away from John to find his boxers and slide them on. John hesitated, watching him, before following suit. He didn't want to get up, dress, go through the motions of a mundane day. He wanted to stay with Sherlock, while away the day with kisses. It was an unfamiliar prospect, being with a man, and he wanted to get used to it.

John dressed more slowly than Sherlock, and by the time he had come down the stairs the other man was already laying out breakfast.

"Toast?" He offered casually.

"Sherlock." John let out a sigh. "What are we doing...exactly?"

"To the best of my knowledge, we're having breakfast, John," Sherlock smiled, screwing the lid back onto the Tropicana he had just poured into a glass. He set it on the table as John shook his head.

"No, I mean, us. What are we doing?"

"What do you want to be doing?" Sherlock replied. His expression was light, but his tone serious, and his eyes intently fixed on his partner.

"Well...I suppose I want us to be together..."

"That's what I want too, then," Sherlock said lightly as if it were that simple.

"But it's not exactly professional, is it? I mean, we're meant to be partners," John pointed out, using hand gestures in an attempt to emphasise the extent of the inappropriateness.

Sherlock pursed his lips a moment, then walked over; took John's hand. When John looked up at him, he was smiling again.

"I don't do things the way others do."

"So I noticed," John murmured.

"Which means that I don't care what other people think," he continued as though he hadn't heard John. And looking in his eyes, John realised he meant it. "And so..."

"So?" John echoed faintly.

"So I suppose dating would be what we're doing...if you want to."

"Even though technically we've done it all the wrong way round," John smiled.

"Didn't you hear me when I said I don't do things the way other people do, Watson?"

"Oh so, it's Watson now is it?" John said, but his grin only widened at Sherlock's own smile. "Right, so, breakfast," he said, trying to bring himself back to reality.

"In a minute," Sherlock said, and was already leaning in to kiss him before the other man could get a word in edgeways.

'Typical Sherlock,' was the last thing John thought before the man's lips captured his. 'Always has to have the last word.'


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, the BBC do. And I do not own the characters or general story, Arthur Conan Doyle does. The only thing I own is what I've written here and I don't profit from it in any way except the sheer enjoyment of writing it **

**Story: Wanting to know more about his lover, John meets up with his brother, Mycroft, and discovers a dark past that shocks him to the core. Holmes/Watson. Contains some shocking imagery so rated M to be on the safe side.**

**N.B. I have totally made up Sherlock's past it isn't based on the BBC series or on Arthur Conan Doyle's work.**

"So, you know why I'm here, then?"

"I'm guessing, you've finally hit it off with my brother?" Mycroft produced a pale smile nothing like his brother's. "I can't help but wonder what took you so long. Actually, considering my brother, I can."

John managed something of a smile as he lightly fingered the rim of his teacup. They were sitting in a cafe quite a way away from the flat he shared with Sherlock. John didn't want to risk Sherlock bumping into them, even though that was unlikely – Sherlock observed most cafes to be dirty with second rate food and avoided them altogether where possible.

"Yes, well, I was hoping you could tell me a bit more about him?"

Mycroft looked surprised. "Why don't you just ask him yourself?"

"I've tried, believe me," John said, annoyance transparent in his voice. "I even asked Mrs. Hudson, she's the landlady of our flat, and she knows next to nothing."

"Ah yes, the man who loves to deduce everything about everything...can't stand people to know anything about him." Mycroft flashed a wry smile. "Ironic, isn't it?"

"Why...why is that?" John clanked his teacup down a little more aggressively than he had intended. "What is it that he can't stand for people to know? He has a fear of failure? He secretly cross dresses? He likes to bake cupcakes? For all I know, it could be all three."

"Well, he certainly has a complex," Mycroft shrugged, crossing one leg over the other as he sat back in his chair. "Have you ever felt...like you weren't wanted, John?"

John frowned, and shook his head. "I don't think so. No."

Mycroft nodded understandingly. His face had taken on an almost nostalgic expression now, intriguing John. "Well, unfortunately, Sherlock did. You see, more than anything in the world, our mother wanted a daughter. When I came along, she was disappointed, but loved me. And vowed to try again. But when she got pregnant again, and found out it was another boy, she was heartbroken."

"But, she would love Sherlock too wouldn't she? He's her son."

Mycroft nodded. "Yes, yes, I think she would have. She could easily have tried again for a girl after Sherlock." His face twisted into sadness, obvious reluctance to tell the next part of the story. "Except that things went wrong, John. During the birth there were complications. Mother lost a lot of blood. As soon as Sherlock had been delivered by Caesarean, she had to have a hysterectomy. You're a doctor, I assume you know what that is," he added.

John nodded. "No more children."

"That's right. Mother tried to love Sherlock, as she did me, but as he got older he became more into boyish things, like science and deduction, mysteries," he waved a hand vaguely, gesturing to imaginary magnifying glasses and the like. "But he was still young enough to want her love."

"She pushed him away," John said aloud automatically. "And that's why he's so dysfunctional with people."

"I fear so," Mycroft agreed. "You can't imagine what it's like. I have one memory, of a Christmas morning. Sherlock had gotten some detective book off our father, a guide to deduction type of thing. He was so excited, John. The first thing he did, once he had thanked father and shown it to me, was rush to show it to mother. He wanted a hug from her, and she just completely brushed him off like he wasn't even a family member."

"I have to see him," John murmured.

"Y-You can't tell him I've told you this," Mycroft stammered, jerking forward. "John – "

"No, I won't, I promise," John reassured him as he grabbed his jacket and threw down some coins for the coffee. "I just have to see him."

'He's been so alone, all this time,' John thought as he hailed a taxi down, a climbed into the back, quickly informing the driver of the destination. 'And I never even realised. How could I have been so stupid? It's beyond not reaching out to people. He goes out of his way to reject them, to cut them out of his life, with his arrogance, and rudeness. It's because he's terrified inside. That they'll reject him first. He couldn't take it another time.'

"Don't worry, Sherlock," John muttered as he strode over to the door of the flat. "There's one person who won't reject you."

Any strange images he had of Sherlock alone, crying, disappeared as he entered their living room and heard Sherlock's cacophonous violin.

"What did the violin ever do to you?" he called out with a grin.

Sherlock put the violin and bow onto the coffee table and turned to John, a mildly annoyed expression on his face. "Where have you been? You've been a while. Two hours, two minutes and 12 seconds, to be precise."

"What, am I not allowed to go out now?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Did you bring back any nicotine patches?" Then his expression changed, his mouth opened. "You've been with my brother, Mycroft."

John recoiled incredulously. "How did you know that?"

"I can smell his aftershave on you. He puts a whole bottle on every day. Must be a terrible waste of money." Sherlock's eyes were now fixed on John's, asking silently.

"He wanted to meet up," John bluffed, then got into it more fluently. "As soon as he heard about you and me..."

"And how did he hear that?"

John mustered up a convincing sigh. "He read my blog. Noticed that I'd started using more positive adjectives to describe you."

"Oh really. Like what?"

A grin of disbelief effectively covered how quickly Sherlock had once again put him on the spot. "Oh you know...tall, dark, handsome." John took a step towards Sherlock with each adjective.

"I am all of those things. But next time..." Sherlock's gaze now lingered on John's lips as he pulled him a little closer. "You might want to try something more original."

John's ability to come up with a retort was drastically reduced as he couldn't concentrate on anything but Sherlock's lips leaning in to kiss him.

"Well, look at that, you've gone and distracted me from my case," Sherlock murmured a moment later, placing a kiss on top of John's head.

"Sorry," John murmured, indulging in the moment. He had to fix this. It was just him and Sherlock. He had to tell him how he felt. Pulling back a little, he gazed up into the impossibly green-blue eyes.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock smiled down at him.

"I love you."

**N.B. A juicy cliff hanger! **** Hope you liked this one. **


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, the BBC do. And I do not own the characters or general story, Arthur Conan Doyle does. The only thing I own is what I've written here and I don't profit from it in any way except the sheer enjoyment of writing it **

**Story: John reveals his feelings. Holmes/Watson.**

"Sherlock?" John said into the increasingly frightening silence. "Say something?"

"You...love me," Sherlock repeated quietly. Shaking his head slowly, he took a step back, then simply walked out of the room, and up the stairs. For a moment John just watched him, just listened to the footsteps, then forced himself into action.

"Sherlock! Sherlock!" He hammered on the door. "Let me in."

"You were right, John," Sherlock called in response. "Mixing our partnership with something more was a bad idea."

'What?' John thought, silently recoiling from the door like he had been hit. 'Does he mean that? No, he can't.' "That's bullshit," he yelled into the wood. "What, because I love you, we'd be no good as a team? We'd be better! I'd die for you, Sherlock."

"I know. I remember."

John's memory flashed back to the swimming pool. Moriarty. The explosives. He'd been prepared to die, just so Sherlock wouldn't have to. It was crazy to risk so much for a man he had only known a month or two, but he already felt like he had a strong bond to the other man. He only wanted the space between them to continue to close.

"Sherlock!" John pounded on the door, not caring that it hurt his knuckles. "Let me in!"

Silence. He pictured Sherlock on the other side of the door. Lying on the bed, his eyes closed. Trying to decide what was the best course of action, no doubt. It was up to him to convince Sherlock.

"I...I know that we haven't known each other for that long. We've been together for an even briefer time. But, well, I want to know you Sherlock. The real you. Everything. The good stuff and the bad stuff." John laughed, feeling like he was talking to himself, but knowing he had to go on. "Hell, I couldn't ask you to accept all my faults without accepting yours."

"You've already accepted me keeping experiments in the fridge, and shooting holes in the wall," Sherlock murmured, so quietly that John didn't hear. "I can't imagine anyone else doing that."

"Please. Open the door?"

All John could hear now was his heartbeat, as he waited. Finally the door opened, and he saw Sherlock standing, with tear-stained cheeks, but the same expression as ever. He opened his mouth to say something, but John cut him off, with one step forward to pull him into a tight hug.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock murmured roughly.

"Don't be silly," John smiled as he pulled back. "Now, shall we make tea?"

Sherlock nodded. "I'm not eating beans again though," he said as John took him by the hand and led him down the stairs.

Mrs. Hudson was waiting there. "Ah, boys, I was just wondering if...Oh dear, is everything alright?"

John realised she had noticed Sherlock's tear stained face. "Ah, yes, yes, Mrs. Hudson, everything's fine. Sherlock just got something in his eye and I had to help him. He was being a terrible baby about it though." Had it been the truth, Sherlock would instantly have produced a cutting defensive remark, but he remained silent. Luckily Mrs. Hudson didn't notice any different.

"I was just wondering if you had any laundry you wanted doing. I've got a lovely new detergent I wanted to try out. Lotus and Elderberry...or something like that."

"No thank you, Mrs. Hudson, we're good for laundry."

"Why did you lie?" Sherlock asked, the instant she was gone.

"Well, Mrs. Hudson means well, but she's a terrible gossip. It's like you said, people do little else but talk. No need to give them reason to."

"Once she sees 'tall, dark and handsome' on your blog she'll put two and two together anyway," Sherlock smirked, and strode into the kitchen as though he hadn't had an emotional breakdown mere minutes earlier.

But John smiled to himself as he watched Sherlock, his Sherlock in the kitchen, intently studying cooking instructions on a lasagne as though they were written in a foreign language he didn't understand. 'You may be a tough nut to crack, Sherlock,' he thought to himself. 'But I'll wear you down. I'll show you that love isn't something to be afraid of...'


End file.
